


a delivery across the constellations

by Elisye



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Gen, Light Angst, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Post-Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), aka "wol remembers that their side job is being a delivery moogle" the fic, catboy and crystarium are a set Do Not Separate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: G’raha looks at you with this particular pinch of muscles in his forehead right above his nose, lips pursed as if to frown but are subconsciously being pressed down into a neutral line - a thing nurtured from a hundred-something years of politics and leadership, you suppose.“I admit, the Allagans were known to have created various, now commonplace varieties of produce through experimental modification of other crops - but that is far from thinking them to be dangerous weapons as with their other experiments and creations.” There is almost something fond in his voice as he tries to turn his not-frown into a smile. “The oranges will not explode on you, my friend. La Noscean ones are in fact a native variety.”“I know. But I had to fetch them.” You don’t bother to hide the aridity as you explain. “Warrior of Light and Darkness, savior of two worlds, and I am once againfetching things.”Now that things have calmed down, it's time for the Warrior of Light and Darkness to do what they have always done best:Menial fetch quests.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 12
Kudos: 110





	a delivery across the constellations

It begins simply. All things do.

That, or, oranges are an ancient Allagan artifact of doom.

G’raha looks at you with this particular pinch of muscles in his forehead right above his nose, lips pursed as if to frown but are subconsciously being pressed down into a neutral line - a thing nurtured from a hundred-something years of politics and leadership, you suppose.

“I admit, the Allagans were known to have created various, now commonplace varieties of produce through experimental modification of other crops - but that is far from thinking them to be dangerous weapons as with their other experiments and creations.” There is almost something fond in his voice as he tries to turn his not-frown into a smile. “The oranges will not explode on you, my friend. La Noscean ones are in fact a native variety.”

“I know. But I had to fetch them.” You don’t bother to hide the aridity as you explain. “Warrior of Light and Darkness, savior of two worlds, and I am once again _fetching things._ ”

The smile bubbles up freely with mirthful cruelty. You stare down the miqo’te with a severity proportionate to his chuckling. Though you soften it a little, just because you can tell he’s also trying to stifle his amusement. ( _He is amused nonetheless,_ a dark friend of a voice in your head says. You ignore them.)

“—Well,” G’raha starts, once he manages to successfully contain his laughter, though he does nothing about his broad smile, “if you are so adverse to collecting them, I wouldn’t mind taking a fair share of the burden from you. We are colleagues now, after all.”

“...You just want to eat your favorite oranges.”

His smile sharpens with a little mischief. “And that as well. But I am being quite sincere about it, I assure you.”

And you don’t doubt it. You never have, really.

Doesn’t change the fact that you’re the type to do everything on their own, if you can. Birds of a feather, you and him. And you’re both working on it, really. Really.

“As much as I want to oblige you, truly,” you sigh, “I know there are other concerns that would be best for you to look at. Besides, I have already collected enough of them, so there is little more to do than delivering these.”

You pause. “I’ll get you a fresh bunch though. Consider it a welcoming gift, Raha.”

Your heels turn quickly, before the man can process that last few statements and start objecting. You whistle an idle tune as you slip through the crowds of Mor Dhona, the surprised shouts from your fellow scion coming as a delayed, distant echo across the bustle. The thought of your new, frankly unnecessary addition to your awful list of requests somehow makes doing the rest of your tasks rather trivial, bearable even.

At least, this is one fetch quest you’re willing to undertake without complaints.

Later into the day, you and G’raha enjoy a small collection of oranges from a cliff overlooking the lake, the glow of the Crystal Tower painting the evening land in soft blues. It’s a familiar thing, deja vu but closer, weirder - the two of you had done something like this in an often enough manner, before in the Crystarium near the Amaro Launch, watching the ambient lights of the tower and the nearby apartments cast themselves into a most beautiful, beloved darkness. Before that before, at the peak of your career, the two of you would also spend a bell or two watching the crystalline spires glow into the night after another day’s foray into a mysterious Allagan legacy.

It all feels so strange, for some reason. And perhaps your thoughts were apparent on your face, since your musings get interrupted with the light twine of fingers with yours. Very sticky, orange-scented fingers.

Indeed, your thoughts are apparent on your face, right now, for sure.

“Raha,” you whine.

“As if you alone made a mess of your hands,” he evenly retorts, an eye glancing at the piles of orange skins and floss discarded by your thigh between the two of you. You also glance down at it - at the bigger of the two piles, next to a certain someone else.

“In any case.” His expression shifts from teasing to attentive - sweet and gentle concern. “I am here to listen, if you need it.”

“It isn’t anything so important.”

“Is it?” His ear twitches.

“Really,” you hum, soon turning from him to look at the tower again. It’s a magnificent sight in the day - but much more at night. Ever since your time in the First, you’ve come to associate the tower with nighttime, with the moon-touched and star-dusted darkness, that sunless sea where one is set adrift with small, soft hope.

Your eyes, too, soften at the memories. “I was just thinking about the past. And the tower. It truly is a beacon of hope.”

G’raha turns his eyes to the same sight, a smile quirking slightly on his lips. “It is. Though not alone. One does not singularly become hope incarnate - we would know that best, yes?”

A small laugh leaves you. “No. Hope is definitely a collective thing.” You pause, as a thought comes to you. Tentatively, “Is this why the Crystarium was designed so...?”

“Indeed, it was.” Something rueful passes by. “As you know, my plan was to depart for the rift with the tower. I had to make sure that the people who gathered to live around it would survive the morrow, thrust into a sudden lack of the tower’s facilities. Thus, the Crystarium was founded with a goal for perfect - or near-perfect - self-sustainability.” 

“And that includes being able to maintain hope for all,” you finish in a murmur. He nods.

“Food and clothing and safety is much the same as trust and happiness and hope. Resources that can so easily run dry.” He breathes deep, exhales quietly. One hundred something years of harsh light, under which crops and people would wither without respite - it shows, all too painfully.

With your laced fingers, entwining closer, you give his hand a reassuring squeeze. There’s a momentary thought to give his hand a kiss but - sticky. Reeks of oranges. No.

“You managed,” you say instead. “You prevailed against it all, against the darnest of odds. And for that, your Crystarium continues to stand as you wish, facing each and every day with hope and defiance.”

You take a quick glance at the other’s face - whether because of your words or your gestures, you find a pleased, relieved smile. It makes you smile in turn, for as his happiness comes from his people’s happiness, so is your happiness found in his happiness.

“I am most glad to hear it,” G’raha replies, with the audible sweep of a happy tail across the grass and rock behind the two of you. “Hearing about the Crystarium... it comforts me, to think - to simply believe they are doing well in my absence. Strange that, how I already miss it so. It has scarce been a week since the transference, and yet—”

“It isn’t so strange.” You pull one leg, dangling off the cliff, up to rest your chin on the knee. “Thus far, it seems unlikely you can return to the First, body and soul. And the circumstances around your return to the Source were, well, you know how it was. It was a chaotic, abrupt affair. If Elidibus hadn’t interrupted us so soon with his plans, if we had had more time...”

_Ah,_ you realize, small and quiet. The reason for the strangeness of your reminiscing from earlier - “If we could have had more time... you could have said farewell, properly. To say farewell at all.”

For it all came to an end, far too suddenly, far too soon. Your adventures in exploring the Crystal Tower, your time in the First.

(You really never expected to see him again, after he closed the doors.

Yet here he is, here he is, returned.)

“...Indeed.” A soft hum, breaking the silence that had delicately settled. You watch G’raha as his gaze falls to his lap, chewing his lip for a second. “In the wake of it all, it was impossible to give my truest regards to everyone. Thinking on it makes me realize - how much I would like to see them again, one more time. The words and thoughts piling up in me that I wish they could hear but can’t.”

Freeing your now sticky fingers from his, you give the miqo’te a light, comforting pat on the shoulder. His face clouds over in a familiar way - an expression you sometimes saw for a split-second in the mirror, in your bleary reflection that the earliest of mornings and the darkest of nights would bring to the fore. On another person's face, it's clearer to notice it, to realize.

“It never ends, those feelings.” You sigh and close your eyes. Grief for what is just out of reach—the mere knowledge of such things is painful, more so to contemplate on how nothing about the situation can ever be changed.

But unlike then, things are a little different here.

Your eyes open, determined - “We can still do something about it, though.”

A red ear flicks in your direction, curious. He raises his eyes, narrowing them by the slightest as he opens his mouth - then closes it, mulling over your words rather than walking ahead on pure nothing.

Eventually, he asks, “We?”

The Ocular is a lonely place, you think.

You thought the same when G’raha, as the Exarch, had retreated to more private quarters to work on the spirit vessel, leaving the room devoid of any presence besides Beq Lugg’s. But even then, the nu mou had been there, a patient figure by the door to inform you on how plans were proceeding and how missed you were, between experimental successes and failures. And in those moments where you could convince the Exarch to leave that small room, to take his hand in yours while talking about anything that caught itself on the hooks of your attention - for those short moments, when happiness echoed off the crystal in the room, the Ocular was filled with a warmth that would linger a while even after your visit ended.

Now, as you walk through the portal and return to the First, the utterly empty audience cuts you as disappointing - and unbearable. Even if it is supposed to be admirable, even knowing so, that the Crystarium was meant to function this way, without a single figurehead at the top, no monarchs or leaders or guides to keep hand-holding and road-lighting. This emptiness is by design.

And it’s going to be like this every time you walk in here.

You sigh at the thought, tucking it away for another day. Such depressing things aren’t why you’re here. Besides - you don’t doubt that the citizens of the Crystarium must have thought the same, in the absence of their beloved founder. You don’t need to add to it with your own thoughts.

So you quickly make your way out of the tower, giving the Crystarium guard posted below a slight heart attack with your unexpected - but nonetheless welcomed, delightedly! - appearance. A few trades of small talk, on how the city and the world have been doing since you left, an inquiry on Ryne and Gaia, and you move along.

As per your plans, you walk around the city to find your intended targets. Everyone reacts rather similarly to the guard - surprised but beyond happy - and more so when you offer a few extra words and answers to questions, especially where it concerns the Exarch. A part of you wishes you could somehow bottle all this joy and thought from his citizens, to hand to him in a physical form.

Much too soon, you reach your final destination, just outside the city. At the watch-post established near the Exarch Gates, you find Lyna at a perfect time, having returned from a routine patrol.

“Is something the matter, to return so soon?” 

“No, no, not at all.” You wave a merry hand. “I just had something to deliver.”

Lyna raises a quizzical eyebrow as you dig through your bags to find and hand over a simple white envelope. The puzzlement melts away in a heartbeat as she takes a quick look at the shape of the blue wax seal and the messy lettering on the other side.

“To be quite honest, I could have delivered these earlier, but Ra— ah, the Exarch, he took a painfully long time trying to figure out what to write for each letter, and then I must admit, I made it worse by insisting he use the same wax seal that he always uses for his official correspondence, to ensure it would be absolutely clear who penned it, but he wouldn’t let me go to the tower to just steal the one already there so I had one custom-made—”

“Thank you.” You stop your part-nervous rambling and look away from the extremely interesting sight of purple trees nearby, finding Lyna still looking down at the envelope in her two hands. There is a slight tremble in her hands, her lips pursed into a tight line, into a foolproof dam for tears - or so she must be hoping. You would know.

“Thank you,” she repeats, a touch louder, “for delivering his words to us. I am certain that for the others, who never received a true farewell from him, that they will cherish what you have given us.”

Your nervousness bleeds out entirely at that, as you offer a smile. “Your welcome. I know it isn’t much, but it’s the least I could do for everyone here.”

Lyna raises and shakes her head at you, something thoughtful in her eyes as her gloved hands trace the scrawl of Vrandtic letters that must be her name. “As I said not too long ago, the Exarch often spoke and acted as if he were giving his farewells, but I do not think his permanent absence was something we ever truly considered. He has been here since the time of our forefathers, since the moment the Crystarium was born - in a way, he is all we have ever known. And now...”

Her eyes rise to look at the tower overhead. Its spires almost blend into the blue of the sky - a clear testament to what your efforts have brought for the First. For what G’raha’s one hundred years and more of toiling had been for. The tower will stand here forever to serve and remind this world and its people about a past that can’t so simply be erased, forgotten.

In that way, it will always, always, so easily haunt them as well. Of that sudden, gaping void in their lives.

“He has faith in you all,” you say, when no other words pour forth. Your hands dig through your bags one more time, pulling something out from another section - you hold it out to the Viis with a bigger smile than before. “Though I suppose that was clear from the start. He knows just as well as you all do, that even without him, you can carry on.”

“For that is the reason that the Crystarium and its people exist at all,” she finishes, her gaze falling back to you on noticing the offering.

There is a moment of curious inspection before Lyna accepts your singular gift of a La Noscean orange, going without comment on why, of all things, you’re giving her a random fruit. So you tell her, breezily, “He wanted you to have this too. It’s his favorite fruit from back home.”

“Home—” The woman blinks rapidly at that, glancing between you and the orange, before a small smile settles on her face. You watch an unknown tension, mysterious in its presence, unwind from her shoulders as she registers the greater meaning in such simple words and gestures.

“...I see.”

A firm, understanding nod. Lyna looks down one more time at the orange and the envelope in her hands, something softly unreadable to it all, before gently pocketing both into the small traveler’s pack on her uniform’s belt.

“Please, give him my thanks - for the letter and the gift alike. And that I am heartened to know that he is well, and still thinks so much of us even now.” A pause. “Do not let him forget that here, too, he has made a home with us—for us—in the Crystarium. Should there come a strange time where he must somehow return, it will stand here, always ready to welcome him.”

You nod, your sincerity kindling a high flame in your heart - for this is what you always wanted, always desired in the past. Just one word, just one moment, a little more time and place and miracles to say more, do more, feel more, for all those you lost so suddenly and bitterly.

A hero you may be, a miracle-maker you may be - but you rarely got any miracles in return, when you wanted them.

You can’t let others suffer this grief, especially those so beloved to you as well.

“I will. You can absolutely count on that,” you say with a resolute smile. “And if you have anything you would like me to ferry over to him as well - do let me know next time, yes?”

“I shall surely have to think on it - but most certainly.” Something wry tugs at her lips. “Though, I wonder if it would be a good thing to make a delivery moogle out of the great Warrior of Darkness now...”

The two of you share a few laughs at that, while you very consciously, very deliberately refrain from mentioning the postmaster cap you have in your closet on the Source.

**Author's Note:**

> SCREAMS OVER 5.3 LIKE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA MY CROPS HAVE BEEN WATERED MY PORES ARE CLEARED MY DREAMS HAVE UTTERLY COME TRUE THATS IT THIS IS THE PEAK OF FFXIV'S STORY AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> so apologies for any errors bc i just HAD TO GET THIS OUT OF MY SYSTEM AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE  
> there is just so much untapped potential in the wol still being able to go between the source and the first so wol playing delivery moogle between raha and the first was the first thing i just had to whip out. helps that theres a (honestly really hecking long) quest chain (that starts in mor dhona of all things!!) where the wol actually Does get appointed as a genuine delivery moogle, literally


End file.
